18

Over the late summer Sharkey is merciless in making redundancies. Apart from back office staff, senior members are given the option of a golden handshake. If they refuse, they suffer the Sharkey treatment until they crack. Those jobs that can be are outsourced; empty desks are removed. In their place, palms and latticed partitions decorate the open office plan on one or two of the floors in the six-storey building. And when the purge is slowing down, and the bulk of the back office has gone elsewhere, the fear of other cutbacks, like the aftermath of a contagion, continues to generate anxiety.

In the private dining room, St John Dunleavy is in denial. ‘Don’t come to me with problems. Come with solutions’ is his motto, and so he listens closely when Sharkey reveals his plan for a Corporate Bonding Conference: ‘I’ve seen them go down a bomb in the us. Just the ticket to get us all out of this slump. Good for staff. Good for Nat Am.’

Sharkey also knows that the best man to lead the conference is Scott Montgomery. ‘Charisma is his middle name, Breffni. A few years ago, I shared a platform with him at Brown while I was up in Providence foraging for Nat Am investments.’

‘Leave it with me,’ says St John Dunleavy. ‘I’ll work on my board’ is followed by his trademark wink. ‘By the way,’ he says when Sharkey has his hand on the door knob, ‘when you are selecting other speakers – warm-up men, as they say in America – give a wide berth to those jumped-up economists one has to endure on the television these days. Their lot is doing harm to our economy and to our banking system, making it out to be a basket case when it’s nothing of the sort.’

‘Consider it done, Breffni.’

To organize the conference, Sharkey gathers round him a few junior bankers who are to be available at all times. He leaves them in no doubt about the serious nature of the event: ‘I’ve done some groundwork; now you’re on your own. You’ve got your BlackBerries; I want a 24/7 response. Gun to tape, and no lagging behind. Get it?’

They stand in front of his desk. ‘If you blow this,’ he tells them, ‘you are showing me you can’t organize a piss-up.’ And he cocks his forefinger towards the venetian blinds, where members of staff are moving about the office floor with papers while others scrutinize their computer screens. ‘See,’ he says, ‘I can get several out there to step up to the plate.’

The conference would be held out at Windermere Hall, a hotel with two hundred acres of golf course off the motorway for the South. Before the boom, the owner had been a bricklayer out in Sallins. One morning he walked into Sharkey’s office and asked for thirty million Euro to invest in a housing project in Kells. Within three years he was in the premier league of developers, Windermere Hall becoming one of his trophies.

‘It’s what I have in common with Maggie Thatcher,’ Sharkey boasted in the executive floor dining room after a Sunday paper had named his client ‘a Celtic Tiger success’. The subtitle read: ‘Another first for Nat Am’. ‘Maggie could size up a guy in thirty seconds. I’m the same. I liked the guy; he has balls.’

By email, Sharkey keeps the staff in touch with the preparations. He sends a final one close to the event:

Listen up, people. You are to be at the foyer by 8 am on Saturday morning for Scott Montgomery’s arrival. Scott doesn’t come cheap. 8 bells. Go well.

When they step out of Mercs, Volvos and corporate taxis, at the front door of Windermere Hall, a few of the directors and senior managers who weren’t able to make the previous night’s dinner are in a cheerful mood, laughing and shaking hands with each other. Porters stand at a discreet distance, ready to help. ‘I hope the traffic was light this morning, gentlemen,’ one of them says in a sycophantic manner to two executives. The concern is ignored.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir?’

‘Yes.’ A director points to his bags on the tarmac. ‘Fetch them.’

‘Be glad to, sir.’

Windermere Hall rolls out the red carpet for the guest of honour. Inside the glass panels, the bank personnel affect a buoyant mood while they wait for his arrival. Then, with a loud whirr that sends a rush of wind through the hedge, the helicopter descends on the pad across from the driveway. The engine is shut off and the propellers come to rest.

Something about Montgomery’s name and the reputation that Sharkey has built up leads them to expect a large-limbed figure, so they are greatly surprised when, instead of John Wayne, Dustin Hoffman with Bono glasses emerges out of the giant fly.

In the conference hall, Dunleavy gives the opening address, followed by Sharkey, who says: ‘It is only right that one Harvard man should add a word of welcome to another.’ He gives a glowing account of Montgomery’s achievements, and how fortunate they are to have him deliver the keynote address. Sitting at the front facing the stage, Montgomery gets to his feet and turns to the assembly; his arms shoot up in a Richard Nixon salute.

For openers, he speaks about can-do and taking no prisoners. ‘You see, folks, a founding principle in my country is that all men and women are equal. All have an equal chance of success. And that’s why the free market is the way to do business. On my way over in the plane, I boned up some more on your economy, and came across a speech by one of your government ministers. I like what that man has to say.’ He refers to his paper. ‘Here it is. “I make no apology to anyone in declaring my strong defence of the free market. What we need in this country is light touch regulation. It releases entrepreneurial skills in anyone willing to get off his backside and work.” Now, folks – there’s a man after my own heart.’

By now, mobiles in handbags, or held discreetly on laps, are lighting up. Encounters that began at the bar the previous night are still simmering.

What wud u like 4 dessert? xxx. Hugh

What’s on the menu? xxx Melody

Do u c the high heels on the little runt? Well hello.

When Montgomery has finished, he does a Nixon pose again. Sharkey leads the applause and reminds them that they are to be back in the conference room in fifteen minutes. Mock protests like pupils deprived of time-off rise from the floor. ‘Guys, golf or trips to Castletown House or Carton in the afternoon.’

Sharkey, who had been the first to leave the bar the previous evening, had, along with Karen, set up the PowerPoint, and checked that the material was in the right order. They did a trial run of the pages: sales figures, current market share and diagrams, showing how Nat Am ranked with other financial institutions.

St John Dunleavy, and one or two of the other directors, speak about the major contribution Nat Am is making towards the Celtic Tiger, how it maintains the highest ethical standards in line with good banking policy, and at the same time delivers prompt service to its clients, especially ‘those willing to take risks for the sake of this country’s future, for its towns and cities.’

Again, Sharkey becomes the warm-up man for Montgomery. He nods to Karen to open a page showing an image of the redbrick house on Andrew Street where Nat Am had started out as Amalgamated. ‘A million and a half pounds in the kitty,’ he says. ‘Buttons.’

He beams at his audience. ‘Now, under the guiding hand of our chairman, we’re the envy of the banking world. Fifteen billion in gross assets. Morgan Stanley, Bank of Ireland, Bank of Montreal – the big guns among our register of shareholders. We bought out First Union in Philly, Lyon Paribas in France, Royal Mutual in Berlin. They laughed at us over their gin and sour in the Four Seasons, called us buccaneers.’ He leans into the microphone, and raises his voice. ‘They’re not laughing now.’ A burst of applause drowns him out, so he has to repeat himself: ‘We did it through being faithful to the highest standards in banking ethics: efficiency, integrity and confidentiality.’

Karen turns over another page that shows just the three words. She tracks progress with the mouse, and stops where Nat Am lies in the table of market shares.

‘See who the leader is, guys. Now, are we going to lag behind that lot?’ Then louder: ‘Are we going to lag behind? Are we happy to be lying fourth or third or even second?’

A surge of voices fills the hall: ‘No, we’re not.’

Mobiles are lighting up again:

In d ro bhind u, Hilary. Gd body structure. Any guided tours?

Dpends who d tourist is.

The market share is left frozen on the computer as all eyes watch the thickset figure of Montgomery climb again to the stage.

‘My daddy was a West Point man, who fought with Mac-Arthur in Korea,’ he begins. ‘Fact is – I carry the proud Montgomery name: the name that is honoured for bravery in wars going back to the Alamo. Yes sir, an illustrious ancestor fought beside Sam Houston against the marauding Mexicans and became a byword for courage, and Texan can-do.’

Hot last nite, babes. Justin.

&u. More wre tht came from.

‘My daddy,’ Montgomery continues. ‘He used to say: “Whenever the troops are happy, something has gone wrong.” I understand you’re not a hundred percent happy right now. Well, maybe that’s because this great financial institution is making decisions that will be to your good and the good of the company in the long run.’

Pacing, he extemporizes for a while and in that way lives up to Sharkey’s glowing praise: ‘No one, but no one does ad lib like Montgomery.’

‘Positive thinking,’ Montgomery declares, ‘it’s the only game in town, folks. A get-up-and-go attitude, along with loyalty to your company. I want to quote a great Irish-American, and a welcomed visitor to the shores of his ancestors: President Ronald Reagan:

Trust the people. The societies that have achieved the most spectacular broad-based progress are neither the most highly controlled nor the biggest in size. No, what unites them all is their willingness to believe in the magic of the market.

Karen brings up the key words on the screen: The magic of the market.

‘Yes, the former President, God bless him, was a firm believer in the free market; and the boundless opportunities for every man and woman who wishes to succeed. Be proud of Nat Am, and be loyal – it’s what has made the United States of America the most powerful nation on earth. And by the way, if needs be,’ a broad smile shows on his tanned face, ‘kick ass. Best motivator in the book. The banking world is no tea party. Never was. You’ve got to fight for it on Main Street; come on you guys!’

Sharkey picks up a radio microphone: ‘Everyone. Let’s show Scott we Irish can appreciate the best motivator you’ll ever hear.’ With jerky movements of his two hands, he indicates that they give Montgomery a standing ovation.

When they settle down again, Montgomery opens a file and delivers his paper: more about loyalty and the free market, and quotations from Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher.

Mobiles continue to light up.

Some play golf that afternoon, others catch up on lost sleep or go to the pool. The women avail of the Ocean Spirit spa, facials or the sauna; some opt for exfoliation and massage.

That evening, waiters in black jackets and bow ties dim the chandeliers in the dining room and then at each of the round tables they light candles in glass bowls as the chattering guests arrive. Women’s necklaces and bracelets sparkle in the candlelight. The Georgian windows with their tied back drapes give a wide view of dusk falling on the golf course.

The waiters move smartly around the tables with bottles of wine; they take orders and reply in the accents of Eastern Europe. Later when the wine begins to take effect, they have to endure self-styled comedians, who make cheap jokes at their expense. ‘Did you come for the weather, mate?’ At one corner, a pianist plays a range of music from Beethoven to Cole Porter to The Beatles. The pianist, an ex-Christian Brother, has been hired by the hotel to play at weddings and conferences. On a good week, with tips included, he brings home more than a teacher’s pay.

The after-dinner speeches are brief. St John Dunleavy calls for a toast to Mr Scott Montgomery and the ‘great United States of America, our closest and best friend’. The ex-Brother plays a few bars of ‘America the Beautiful’: all stand and raise their glasses.

Some of the directors, and those, like Conrad Brennan, who never miss an opportunity to advance their careers, saunter out on to the smoking salon with Montgomery; St John Dunleavy has given the speaker a box of Havanas. His cheque would be sent on the following week.

Philip and the others intend to have one or two drinks, get an early night and meet for a swim and a work-out in the early morning; but, like any group with a shared history, they have stories to tell, and one rolls onto the next, especially about the time when they returned to Haughey’s daring new world of financial services. They were climbing the greasy pole then: keeping ahead of the mortgage, the loan on the new Volvo, and getting the boys down for Belvedere where they would meet ‘the right sort’.

Before he leaves for Dublin airport on the Sunday morning, Montgomery delivers his final inspirational speech. He ends with a parable. His wife’s grandfather arrived at Ellis Island from Lithuania on a bleak February morning in 1904. All he had was a shirt, long johns and a pair of socks in a brown paper parcel.

‘But Margaret’s granddad didn’t sit on his hands. No sir. He raised a family, became a steeplejack in the Bronx, then a builder, made several fortunes, so that his family went to Columbia and Fordham. And his granddaughter – my lovely wife – made it to Yale, and is now a highly respected lawyer. Can-do, guys. Buckets of can-do. All men and women are equal in the United States of America.’

With his fellow Harvard man leading the applause, and others rising from their seats, Montgomery raises his voice: ‘Go get it, guys, go get it. And make sure you always get bang for your buck.’

When he is leaving, everyone goes out to the foyer again to wave goodbye. Halfway across the avenue he turns and waves: ‘Remember Speaker Moynihan folks: “No one ever lost an election by underestimating the intelligence of the public.”’ The full-on propellers cause a flurry in the high hedge as the helicopter rises into the sky.

A short session on the Sunday morning is devoted to a mission statement. This is St John Dunleavy’s idea: one of his old Bene-dictine teachers had suggested it to him at their last Downside reunion. ‘And it will consolidate the spirit of bonding that was evident these past two days,’ he declares.

Sharkey has no time for mission statements. ‘Is it converting black babies we’re at now?’ he says to his retinue while they are having breakfast. ‘Give me investments, net-worth, and equity, and fuck your mission statement. What do monks know about anything? If I hadn’t grabbed Amalgamated by the balls, well … guys,’ he says as he stirs his coffee, ‘you are what you have in this world. Yes, and by Jesus, you hold on to it.’

‘Seems to be part of this Catholic thing he’s so proud of.’

Sharkey ignores the comment. ‘Here’s my mission statement, guys. First commandment of banking: You shall be judged by the profit you bring in. That’s what the shareholders demand and rightfully expect. The second commandment: Hold your client. Sin against one of those two commandments and I shoot you.’